In 2004-2005, when I was pregnant with my son, now 5, I didn’t have anyone take pictures of me until the tail-end of my pregnancy. And I only relented because of guilt, because friend upon friend told me that I would be cheating my son if I refused to be photographed, because a pregnancy picture is a must-have on the first page of every baby book.

I wasn’t able to find a baby book appropriate for our family situation anyway, for I conceived my son as an aspiring single mother inseminated with anonymous-donor sperm, and every baby book I saw included a family tree, with expectations that both branches be completed, along with other single-parent nightmares such as “Parents” pages featuring fill-ins like “The Story of How We Met.”

Not wanting my son to be screwed on both the baby book and pregnancy pic front, I had my boyfriend (now my husband) and other friends take pictures of me a few times during the final months of my pregnancy, and I’m glad I did. I have shown them to my son throughout his little life, and, in hindsight, they’re proof that I actually carried him, that at least one aspect of his conception and in-utero stay was “normal.”

With this pregnancy, I didn’t make any conscious decision not to be photographed. Actually, I’d planned to have our go-to photographer, Jennifer Girard, do a shoot because she has recently delved into pregnancy portraits. Jennifer encouraged me so I wouldn’t regret not having pictures of my final pregnancy, and she said to book the shoot as late in the pregnancy as possible.

But I was hospitalized at 25 weeks of pregnancy because of pre-term bleeding, then I was on full or partial bed rest for the last 11 weeks, so I couldn’t make it to her Wrigleyville studio. And now, frankly, I feel so disgusting that I can’t imagine that the effort involved in trying to make myself presentable, then traveling downtown, would result in pictures that I would find acceptable. Jennifer could Photoshop me, of course, but what’s the use of documenting the real pregnant me, then making me slimmer?

So today my 5-year-old son took on the role of photographer. Unfortunately, he doesn’t fully understand the zoom lens on my digital camera, and, unfortunately, he’s very blunt: He told me flat-out that he coudn’t fit my entire belly into a picture because it’s too big.

Here are two of his images, demonstrating that, no, he couldn’t figure out to how to fit all of me, in my pregnant glory, into the frame. But now I have pictures of this pregnancy, I look like the real me, and the pics were free.

Me, 36 Weeks and 6 Days Pregnant

My 47-Inch Waist

I met my now-husband in May 2004, nine months—and six unsuccessful attempts—into pursuing my goal of being a single-mother-by-choice via insemination with anonymous-donor sperm.  I was about 30 days into the medications involved with my seventh cycle; we stayed up all night talking; and I told him every detail of my past failures, which included a miscarriage, my present medication protocol, and my future plans, if my upcoming, final insemination didn’t work. 

He was impressed by—and attracted to—my strength in not only pursuing my dream of being a mother, but also suffering through infertility, solo.

We spend the first nine days of our relationship facing the concept of me potentially becoming pregnant, using donor sperm. 

I did.

We spent the first nine months of our relationship handling not only my high-risk pregnancy, but also the range of emotions involved with our brand-new romance complicated by me being pregnant with “another man’s baby,” as his less-evolved friends referred to my unborn child.

Nine months minus one day after we met, we pulled an all-nighter at the hospital, he as my birth partner, Beatles music playing in the background, as I gave birth to my son.

Ten months into my son’s life, he asked me not only to marry him, but also for permission to adopt my son. 

He also said he’d be happy to get married over the Christmas holidays.

“This Christmas?” I asked, flattered by his eagerness, but stunned that he thought we could plan a wedding on such short notice.  I’m a Catholic girl, after all, meaning hoops need to be jumped through.  Lots of hoops.

We got married 13 months later, on December 16, 2006.  He started the adoption process on December 18, the first business day afterward.

So, my son has been part of our relationship since Day 1:  as a concept; as my primary focus during the nine months of my high-risk pregnancy; as an incredible bonding experience for us through childbirth classes and his birth; as a subsequent bonding experience when he was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for the first five days of his life; as a newborn whom I was not separated from for the first 3 ½ months of his life; as a baby; a speech-delayed, frustrated toddler; an attitudinal 3-year-old; a compassionate, funny 4-year-old; through every milestone, from first smile, to first step, to first word.

And, he is reason we lasted beyond those first few days. 

He is the reason my husband didn’t feel pressured by me, for I was not looking for a man to make me a mother; I was trying to be—then going to be—a mother on my own.

And, he is the reason I didn’t try to prematurely advance our relationship because of my blaring biological clock.  Once again, I was dealing with that issue on my own.

My husband and I are meant to be, but, if not for my son, our timing would have been disastrous.

My husband, married a month out of college to his first girlfriend, had only been divorced for 13 months when we met.  Finally free of a long, combative marriage, newly a single dad to his two sons, remarriage and becoming a father again were not short-term goals.

I, on the other hand, had suffered through 21 years of dead-end dating.  Admittedly, I had compromised as I got older, settling for less than I deserved because I wanted to be in love, to get married, to have children.  But, by the time I met my now-husband, my philosophy was “I can always fall in love, but I won’t always be able to have children.”  The fact that neither he nor our relationship was my priority was appealing and refreshing to him.

So, unpressured, he and I fell in love; I had my own baby; we got married, making me a stepmother to his two sons; he adopted my son; and now I’m 21-weeks pregnant with our fourth son.

We’re unconventional, but it works well for us.  So, tonight, the three of us—husband, wife and the 4-year-old reason we’re together—celebrated. 

My husband drank two glasses of wine, while our son and I drank water.  My husband served as deejay, selecting music on his iPod.  Our son played air guitar, air drums, and danced until he, who is never, ever tired, said he needed to rest.  Then he and my husband would jump up and dance some more.  I would have loved to dance too, but, protecting another high-risk-pregnancy, I snuggled up on the couch, sang to the music and cheered them on.

No, it wasn’t romantic, but we were blissfully happy celebrating our anniversary. 

It belongs to all three of us.

Although I was 10 years old, it had never occurred to me. 

I knew how babies were made because my mother had explained “the birds and bees” to me two years earlier, when I had simply asked what a tampon was.  But, when my parents told me I would be getting a fourth sibling that summer, I never thought of sexual intercourse—or, worse, my mom and dad having sex with each other.  I thought it sounded disgusting.

So, when my classmate “outed” them not only to me, but also to my entire class, I was humiliated. 

Mortified, actually.

Of course, in the late 1970s, assisted reproductive technology (ART) was in its infancy—and shrouded in secrecy—so it was assumed that all parents had sex in order for their children to exist.  But, that didn’t make me any less embarrassed. 

My son, age 4, and my unborn son, due in April, won’t ever have to suffer that same type of humiliation because sex wasn’t involved in their creation. 

With my 4-year-old, I got pregnant as a single-mother-by-choice via intrauterine insemination (IUI) with donor sperm. 

To conceive the son I’m currently carrying, my husband and I had to undergo in vitro fertilization (IVF), so sperm met egg in a lab.  In fact, my husband was on a business trip in Dayton, Ohio, during my embryo transfer, so he wasn’t even in-state when I got pregnant.

But, just because intercourse wasn’t involved with the conception of my sons doesn’t mean there wasn’t an overabundance of love.

All aspiring single-mothers-by-choice have to be damned serious about parenting before embarking on pregnancy attempts.  We have no back-up.  Our emotional and financial resources are it, because, regardless of the goodwill of family members and friends, as single moms, we are the only person fully, completely, totally responsible for our children. 

Single-mothers-by-choice consider every scenario in advance, because we have to.  So, when we are lucky enough to bear children, we’re not resentful about sleeplessness, about thousands of dirty diapers, about the toll our children have taken on our bodies and our social lives.  Our children were desperately wanted, so wanted that we undertook what is considered an alternative lifestyle choice, sometimes to the dismay of family members, friends, and religions.

I’m Roman Catholic with ultra-conservative parents, so my choice to get pregnant on my own was not greeted with enthusiasm, for the Catholic Church approves only of conception via intercourse with a spouse. 

When I met with my parish priest six years ago, I told him that I felt that God was supportive of my decision.  He responded by telling me I needed to be forgiven for my arrogance, for assuming that I knew what God’s reaction was. 

But, I’d rather rely on God, whom I view as loving, than the fallible men at the helm of the Church, men who, over the life of the Church, have routinely changed their minds.  And, I feel that a loving God would approve of my becoming a parent, because He created me, a woman meant to be a mother, a woman whose destiny wouldn’t have been fulfilled if she hadn’t been able to parent a child.  And, He certainly hasn’t punished me; in fact, I’ve experienced a series of miracles ever since. 

I met the perfect man for me nine days before becoming pregnant.  He stayed.  We got married in late 2006, when my son was 21 months old, and my husband subsequently adopted him.  While many DES Daughters are never able to have children, I have a healthy 4-year-old son and am now pregnant again—at age 41, with a uterine abnormality.   

While single women have to be passionate about their decisions to be parents, so do couples suffering from infertility, as my husband and I were.  Having sex to procreate is easy—and free.  Having to resort to infertility treatments is time-consuming, emotionally draining, body-abusing, unbelievably stressful and expensive. 

Infertility treatments require complete dedication to parenting.  Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to tolerate injection after injection, blood draw upon blood draw, countless doctor’s appointments, invasive medical tests and procedures, devastating disappointments, and pregnancy losses.

I find it bizarre that the Catholic Church only advocates conception via intercourse between spouses.  I personally know married couples who not only have unhealthy relationships with each other, but also should never have had children, because their unhappiness spilled into their parenting.  I know married couples whose parenting is based not on the best interests of their children, but on their personal preferences or their needs for their children to be extensions of them.  I know married parents whose love is conditional, whose parenting turns to manipulation and threats if their children aren’t “towing the line.”  I know married couples who have abused their children, both emotionally and physically.

My children were conceived with so much love.  They are and will be parented by a couple, deeply in love and now married, who suffered to conceive them, who will love them unconditionally, and who will nurture them into the men they’re meant to be. 

When our sons are old enough to understand their conception and birth stories, I hope they’re tremendously proud of how much they were wanted—and how much they’ve been loved. 

The fact that no sex was involved will simply be a bonus.

My hope that more celebrities will be open about having used ART doesn’t extend to the personal, private intricacies—what specific treatment(s) they used, how many cycles they underwent before experiencing success, whether they did pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) of their embryos, how many embryos they transferred, and whether they used donor sperm, eggs or embryos.

I know from personal experience that the decisions to reveal the personal details of ART and/or donor conception, once a child is involved, aren’t easy ones.

When I was 35, I decided to pursue single parenthood via intrauterine inseminations (IUIs) with donor sperm.  I chose to go the sperm-bank route, and my reproductive endocrinologist would only work with Fairfax Cryobank, stating that the sperm bank did more testing on its donors and semen samples than any other facility.  At the time, Fairfax Cryobank only had anonymous donors.  And, at the time, this increased guarantee of the medical health of the donor, sperm and resulting child outweighed, for me, whether the donor was “open” or anonymous.

From the start, I was honest with everyone about how I was trying to get pregnant—with IUIs and anonymous-donor sperm. 

I thought I was doing IUIs simply because that’s one way single girls using donor sperm can get pregnant, if they decide to not go the do-it-yourself-at-home route.  It wasn’t until after my fourth unsuccessful cycle that I found that I required ART to conceive—and might never conceive at all—because of my T-shaped uterus, the result of my exposure to the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) when I was in utero. 

But, even before I knew exactly what my reproductive problem was, I knew the problem was me, for the sperm donor had a proven track record. 

So, try after try, when I didn’t get pregnant, I revealed my disappointments.  I was comfortable sharing what I was going through, and, not having an infertile partner or infertile known sperm donor to protect, I could.

So, I understand why some individuals or couples wouldn’t want to shout, “The problem is my low sperm count,” or “My uterus is deformed,” or “That STD I contracted in college made me infertile,” to the world. 

My body was the reason for my infertility.  And, being single and using an anonymous donor, my decision to reveal my infertility and subsequent treatments in detail was my decision—my decision alone.

Trying to conceive as a single woman, I also shared, from the start, that I was using donor sperm.  I went so far as to announce it to all of my Catholic relatives in my 2003 Christmas letter, feeling that they required some advance notice, rather than the shock of 35-year-old single me getting pregnant.  I knew, if the more negative ones found out after the fact, they would assume that my pregnancy was accidental, regardless of my claims to be a “single mother by choice” who actively pursued pregnancy via donor-sperm insemination. 

So, I was proactive, instead incurring the wrath of those family members who agree with the Church’s stance on using both ART and donor gametes.   

Regardless of the judgment of the Catholic Church and my Catholic relatives, I have never questioned using ART—or my honesty about using it—to conceive my son.  However, after he was born, I did question any future openness about having used donor sperm.  (Not in relation to him, because I’ve told him his special story since his birth.)  It was fear about others’ judgment of my son that led to this questioning.

My fear was precipitated by my now-husband, then my boyfriend, and I moving to the Chicago suburbs to be closer to his two sons.  Shortly before our move, I was told that his ex-wife referred to my son and me as “That woman and her mutt,” and I became terrified that she would reveal how he was conceived, with her negative spin, to people I hadn’t yet met, not giving me the opportunity to decide what to reveal and to whom.

Then, a long-time resident of the area to which we were relocating discouraged me from telling the truth, warning me that people might make fun of my son because he was conceived in a test tube.  He wasn’t, but I was scared about my son being mocked nonetheless.    

So, I struggled with being worried for my son, then concerned that hiding the truth would be, in effect, acting as if there were something wrong with how he was conceived, something that should be concealed in order to protect him.

And, there isn’t.

I knew I likely could get away with telling no one because everyone in our new community would assume that my then-boyfriend/now-husband was the biological father of my son.

But, for my husband and me, living a lie wasn’t an option.  As we’ve gotten to be close to new neighbors and friends, we’ve told them our story, which includes my husband and I meeting nine days before I got pregnant with my son during my seventh IUI. 

And, their responses have ranged from exclaiming that it is “the coolest story they’ve ever heard” to thinking that the fact that my son is donor-conceived is “no big deal at all.”  If anyone has a negative opinion, they haven’t shared it.

But, although we’ve been open, we don’t feel it’s right to make our son, whom my husband adopted after our marriage, the poster child for anything, whether being a donor-conceived child or having white-blonde hair.  He’s only 4.  So, I never mention him by name on this website, and the pictures of him posted are either unidentifiable based on what he looks like now or profile shots that, once again, make him unrecognizable.

But, I’m not a celebrity.  Paparazzi aren’t outside my home, clicking away at every opportunity.  So, my husband’s and my decision to be honest about my son being conceived with donor sperm isn’t the same as celebrities being open about the same.   Their stories would be splashed across every tabloid, online gossip site, television and radio outlet, etc.  And, having their children’s origins on front pages across the globe would be detrimental.

So, from personal experience, I don’t think celebrities have to reveal exactly how they created their miracle families.  But, if they could share that it took ART—and that ART is costly—it will educate aspiring parents that it’s difficult and expensive to outrun your biological clock—even if you’re rich and famous.

I was curious because 5½ years ago, like Nadya, I was a single woman who used assisted reproductive technology and donor sperm in order to conceive, in order to become a “single mother by choice.”  However, in my case, I had one son.  Nadya kept going until she had 14 children, including the octuplets born this year.

I was impacted most by two sequences in the two-hour program.  The first was when the camera zoomed across the eight newborns lying in a row on a queen or king bed, all bawling.  I used to experience stress when my son, just one child, cried, so I couldn’t imagine coping with eight upset newborns, on top of six other young children, two of whom have special needs.  I felt anxiety just watching… 

Second, near the end of the program, I was stunned when one of Nadya’s sons, who looked to be around two years old, called her a bitch.  Where did he hear the word?  How did he know how to use it?  And, why is he so angry that he used it against his mother?

Well, tonight, I’m the bitch.

Yesterday afternoon, my son and I, plus the twins that we carpool with, drove to pick up my stepson for the weekend.  From the preschool to my husband’s ex-wife’s house, my son was preparing his friends to meet his brother.  The three of them talked about how they have brothers with the same name who also are the same age—13.  The twins’ other older brother is 11, so my son notified them that his other brother is 15, older than 11, and away at school.  And, his “other, other brother” is in my belly, not born yet.

Recognizing that the twins might be confused, I explained that my son’s dad was married before, so my son’s brothers have a different mother that they live with too, and we were picking my stepson up at his mother’s house.  I explained that I am my son’s mom, but his brothers have a different mom.

After all of this anticipation, once again my stepson wasn’t there.

My son was devastated—yet again.

During the 20-minute drive to drop the twins off at their house, they asked over and over, “Where is he?” and “Why didn’t he come out of the house?” and “Is he at CVS [pharmacy, which we passed by]?” and “Do we still get to meet him?”

My husband told his ex, via phone, to drop my stepson off last night.  She hung up and didn’t bring him over.

After my husband sent her an e-mail this morning, outlining that visitation interference is illegal, she dropped my stepson off, never admitting wrongdoing.

So, with my stepson finally here, my son has followed his brother around, spending most of the day watching him while he played video games.

My son isn’t allowed to play too.  During the one weekend about six months ago that he did learn to play a game called Jack, he became an addict, not even wanting to stop to eat.  So, I cut him off quickly—and completely.

Late this afternoon, I overheard my husband talking with my son and stepson about the Lego Star Wars video game. 

I yelled to him, “He’s not allowed to play video games, remember?”

My husband came into our bedroom and said, “Look, he’s just sitting in there, watching.  I want them to interact.  Let him play.”

Feeling guilty, I agreed.

Three hours of playing later, three hours interrupted only by dinner, I announced to my son that it was time for bed.   

It was 8:30 p.m., an hour past his norm, but we let him stay up because my stepson said that he won’t have free time to spend with my son tomorrow, that he has to dedicate himself to his homework.

So, overtired and already re-addicted to video games, my son said, “I don’t want to go to bed.  I just want to finish this game.  Please?”

“How long will it take to finish?”

“I don’t know.”

Trying to avoid an outburst by giving him time to prepare for the end of his playtime, I said, “Well, I’ll go brush my teeth and put on my pajamas, but then it’s time for bed.  It’s late.”

When I returned five minutes later, he refused.  He repeated, “I just want to finish my game.  Please?” 

I took the remote out of his hands, and he started crying.

I picked him up, the only way to get him out of my stepson’s bedroom, and carried him across the hall into his.

When I set him on his bed, he ran to its far corner.

He screeched, “I am NOT going to sleep.”

He refused to come to me to get changed.

I told him that if he didn’t behave, I’d take his new Star Wars lightsabers away, that he didn’t deserve to keep gifts, given for good behavior, if he continued to act like this.

He hit the side rail on his bed, before stomping over to me, fists clenched.

I said, “It’s OK to be mad, but you can’t hit things.”

“I am so mad at you,” he spit at me.

“Why are you so mad?”

“I don’t know.”

He pounded his fists against his thighs.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” I said.  “That’s not very smart.”

With his, he flung himself at me, throwing punches at my shoulders and chest.

“That’s it.  If this is how you act, no more video games.”

I backed up, turned off his light, and closed the door.

He started screeching again, high-pitched, horrific screaming…

Then, I heard, “You’re such a bitch.”

I know that he knows the word from his older brothers.  He first used it, to my complete shock, in early September, at a neighborhood party.  A 4-year-old girl was taunting him, and, from five feet away, I overheard him say, “You’re such a bitch.”

I stormed over, only to have the girl say, “He just called me a ditch.  He just called me a ditch.”

Pulling him aside, I asked, “Did you just call her a bitch?”

“Yes, but…”

“That’s a terrible word.  You never use that word.  We’re leaving.”

He loved our summer/fall Friday-night neighborhood parties, so I assumed that my extremely negative reaction, plus the punishment of an early departure, would have taught him a lesson.

Also, the next day, I talked to him at length about his language.  He didn’t know what the word “bitch” meant, but he knew how to use it, as he’d shown.  He promised me he’d never say the word again.

But he did the following week, when a friend wouldn’t play with him.  Once again, he blurted, “You’re such a bitch,” but this time to a boy.

We had another talk—and, to my knowledge, he hadn’t used the term since.

But, tonight, he wanted to stay with his brother.  He was feeling like such a big boy, being allowed to play the Star Wars video game with him.  And, he’s emotional and irrational every time we have visitation, desperate to have as much time with his brother or brothers, when both are here, as possible.

And, tonight, I took that away from him.  I was the bitch who insisted that he prematurely end his game, leave his beloved brother and go to bed.

I understand that he was angry.  And, I understand that he’s 4 years old and not in full control of his emotions, especially when he’s tired and feeling pressured to make the most of his limited time with his brothers. 

But, I’m simply not a bitch to my son.  I’m not perfect.  But I’m not a bitch.

Thank you to both Celine and Rene for being open about the fact that they have used IVF to conceive both of their children–this year, when Celine is 41, and eight years ago, when Celine was just 33. 

Celine and I both already have sons, but mine is younger at 4, and I got pregnant with him as a 35-year-old single woman doing intrauterine insemination (IUI) with donor sperm.  It took seven tries before I had success.  And, of course, Celine and I are different in that I’m not famous.

Every man, woman or couple who is honest about his, her or their struggles with infertility helps educate others about this physical and psychological trauma that affects more than 7.3 million people in the United States alone.  I’m doing my tiny part with this blog.  But celebrities such as Celine can both generate awareness and reduce the stigma of infertility–among multi-millions. 

Good for you, Celine.